NU-STRANGENESS Monday, Jan 7 2008

Remarkable news is coming out of the Mars ‘Luna-ring’ particle accelerator unit, in the wake of the unusual joint scientific project undertaken by physicist Prof Robo Galistein and psychical researcher Dr Francis Benjamin.
‘There are some red faces about today,’ commented Dr Simon Rick, the Lunar facility’s Director. ‘After years of ridicule, particle physicists finally allowed scientific testing of theories developed by psychical researchers during the latter half of the 20th century,’ he continued. ‘And some strange things have taken place.’
Physicists have known for some time that the mind of man is a form of reflection of the universe, and vice versa. The first hint of this process came when Niels Bohr applied the ‘Copenhagan Interpretation’ of quantum mechanics, where he said that the exact state of a particle was the outcome of participation of the particle and man through observation. This was an extension of the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle (1926) when it was discovered that to observe a particle, it had to be bombarded with light - which is itself made up of particles. Hence, what we actually see is the result of a bombardment rather than the true state of the particle - making the quantum field probabilistic.
‘Ever since the 1970s,’ said Dr Rick, ‘psychical researchers have been screaming that if the mind of man decided certainty from the probabilistic fuzz of the quantum field, then if man’s view of reality was shifted through an altered state of consciousness, then a different formulation of particles could be brought into being. Such theory was applied to incidences of mind-over-matter from the 1980s, so giving poltergeist activity and psychokinesis a hint of scientific respectability. However, science shied away from the theory mainly due to the repercussions proof of such a concept would hold for science. Even as late as 2011, Prof Galistein commented: “This idea simply cannot be true. Acceptance of such a principle would mean that discoveries made in particle accelerators are not observations of the true state of the quantum field, but delusions of our own prejudices and states of mind .. ” Basically, it means the whole universe, and the reality we live within it, is a delusion.’
This comment was in answer to the claim of psychical researchers that particle accelerators are not ‘atom smashers’, per se, but dream machines.
‘The main problem here,’ said Dr Benjamin before the test, ‘is that particle accelerators are used to test speculative theories drawn up by physicists. Before the successful outcome of testing such theories, they are simply models of the universe existing only in the mind of the theoriser.’ He explained: ‘The old view of science is that the successful outcome of such tests is proof of reality. We say different. We believe that the successful outcome is a form of creation. Basically, if the consensus of opinion is in favour of the theory, then we create reality to fall in line with it. Hence, scientific reality is nothing more than an extension into “matter” of thoughts in a man’s head.’
To test this revolutionary view, psychical researchers, headed by Dr Benjamin have, for the last two weeks, been carrying out hypnotic control therapy on Prof Galistein and his colleagues in order to infect their minds with a theory of the universe devised by the psychical researchers. In applying this theory to testing collisions within the particle accelerator (if Dr Benjamin is right) then this false theory should manifest as reality. And that is what seems to have happened.
‘I still find the facts hard to digest,’ said Prof Galistein, last night. ‘But all indications point to the fact that underlying our present understanding of the quantum field are an infinite number of sub-particles that look like, for the want of a better analogy, Teddy Bears ..
‘The universe, gentlemen, is made up of Teddy Bears.’

© Anthony North

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A SHOT IN THE DARK Friday, Jan 4 2008

In deciding to write about the adventures of my good friend Marmaduke Grey, I feel somewhat overawed. How does one express, in words, such absolute genius when my own mind is inferior to the task. Of course, this is not to denigrate my own abilities. Simply that, next to him, we are all inferior.
We heard about the case whilst relaxing in Marmaduke’s apartment. ‘What do you think about the case, Perkins?’ he asked as he sat there, pipe in one hand, newspaper in the other.
A quick glance at the paper and I had the basic facts. The previous night a shot had been heard in a street not too far from us. Police had immediately been on the scene, found the body of one Henry Baxter and arrested a suspicious gentleman close by.
‘It seems an open and shut case to me,’ I offered. To which Marmaduke Grey showed intense irritation and rushed for his coat and hat.

‘I’m not quite sure what you intend to discover here,’ said the Inspector of Police a short time later. Marmaduke had summoned him to the scene of the crime and rushed there himself in a Hansom cab.
‘What do you make of it, Perkins?’ he asked.
I looked up and down the street. Scrutinised the ground. ‘There is nothing out of the ordinary, Marmaduke,’ I said.
‘Quite,’ replied the great detective. ‘But don’t you think the lack of blood a little suspicious?’
I had to admit, when he pointed it out it was a little strange. I turned to the Inspector of Police: ‘And the man was shot here, at close range?’
‘He was not,’ interrupted Marmaduke Grey. ‘There would be a pool of blood. No, gentlemen, he was shot elsewhere and placed here to distract the investigation.’

Marmaduke Grey was always irritated when he had to wait. And as we sat in the police station waiting for the suspect to be brought to us, his irritation was rather worse than normal.
‘The fools,’ he said, ‘how could they ever have thought they had the killer. Goodness, they don’t even have the gun.’
I offered, on their behalf: ‘They were of the opinion he had thrown it away, or placed it down a nearby sewer, where it was carried off my the drains.’
‘My dear Perkins, supposition can never replace evidence. And without evidence you have no basis upon which to suppose.’
‘But isn’t such supposition the whole purpose of investigation?’ I asked. After all, Marmaduke had for ever told me to the importance of imagination in solving a mystery.
‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘But only if you have a mind fit for the task.’
He sneered as the Inspector of Police brought the suspect to him.
Marmaduke looked him up and down. Finally, he said: ‘And you are?’
The man looked frightened. Finally, he said: ‘My name is Rupert Anders, and I am innocent.’
‘Of course you are,’ said Marmaduke, his irritation continuing. ‘But if I am to prove that, we need your help to solve the case.’
This was, of course, a surprise to me. ‘But Marmaduke,’ I interrupted, ‘if you are right and the man is innocent, then he will also be in the dark regarding the motive of the crime.’
‘In that, you are absolutely right. But for the murderer to have a suspect in place, he must have put him there. Ands in working out how that occurred, we can work back to the murderer, and from there intuit the motive.’

I had to admit, it was a strange way of going about the case, but strangeness was a factor you had to get used to when working with Marmaduke Grey.
To me, his interview with Rupert Anders had been of no use. But it was clear, to Marmaduke, that the interview held the solution.
‘A normal street, you will agree,’ said Marmaduke as we exited the Hansom into the commercial area of the London district.
‘Absolutely,’ I agreed.
‘And Mr Anders? Did he seem a normal man having a normal day?’
‘He did, indeed,’ I agreed.
‘So what can you deduce from that?’
I offered a blank stare.
‘But it is so obvious,’ said Marmaduke. ‘The murder was an abnormal aberration in an otherwise normal situation.’

We entered the shop a couple of minutes later. ‘You will recall that Mr Anders came into this shop in search of a particular item.’ He looked the contents of the shop up and down. ‘Aha!’ he said, excitedly. He held just such an item in his hand.
‘But according to Mr Anders, the shopkeeper hadn’t the item in question.’
‘Exactly,’ said Marmaduke. ‘But he did advice where such an item could be found.’
I was beginning to understand. The shopkeeper had directed Mr Anders to the scene of the murder.
‘Our suspect was quite clear that the shopkeeper was overexcited and anxious. And if you recall, some time earlier, he had bumped into a gentleman in the street who was questioning passers-by in order to ascertain the location of a gentleman he suspected of having an assignation with his wife.’
‘Good grief,’ I said, ‘you mean to say you think the gentleman found him.’
‘I do. And that gentleman was the shopkeeper. And during the argument that followed, the shopkeeper shot the gentleman dead. And after the fact, he thought on his feet, directed Mr Anders to a specific location where he placed the body and fired a shot as Mr Anders approached.’
His speech complete, Marmaduke Grey burst through the curtains to the back of the shop, whereupon we found the shopkeeper dead in a chair, a bullet hole through his temple, and a revolver on the floor by his feet.
‘Ah, the consequence of the normal man descending into crime. Guilt, my dear Perkins, the greatest detective of all.’

(c) Anthony North, January 2008

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IT’S LIKE A VIRUS Tuesday, Jan 1 2008

WARNING: Some stories may contain disturbing scenes.

They say that life is like a road you travel down. For a while it will go nice and straight, but occasionally you get surprising corners that nearly knock you off the road. Then there are the crossroads – you know, times when a choice decides your entire life’s journey. But really it is nothing like a road, because on the road you get warning signs of the crossroads. In life, you get no warning at all; and when you hit, boy it can be a matter of life and death.
I had one of those moments when I met Jake. I suppose, with hindsight, the warning sign was there. He was a gaunt man with eyes that had such depth it was as if he had seen every horror there was to see. Maybe I should have realized that if I walked his road, I would see it all too. But I was young, adventurous, not the sort to turn down a challenge – in short, I was a fool.
I met him in a bar. It was a typical crossroads of a bar. My train was delayed, so I’d wandered out of the station to find a drink. And there was Jake, the only other person in the bar, sat in a corner, surrounded by shadows.
Something about me drew me to him; intrigue, I suppose – a sense that this man was interesting. We talked small talk for a while, and then he hit me with it. ‘Do you believe in ghosts?’ he said.
It was one of those innocuous, trivial questions. We all claim to have seen something in our life, but we never really take it seriously. ‘Do you believe in ghosts?’ I wish I’d never heard him say that. Because once he’d said it, I’d begun to turn into that damned crossroads.

I won’t recount the entire conversation. It becomes tedious; and I don’t really want to remember everything. My mind won’t take it – it goes into overdrive and I feel as if I’m losing my sense of reality.
That’s funny, I suppose – the idea that I know what reality is any more.
Jake had a friend. He was a man he met in a bar – a kind of crossroads of a bar, and this man had eyes that had seen everything, and he told Jake the same story that Jake told me.
The friend had been to a haunted house. He didn’t know it was haunted at the time. He knew, as he arrived, that it was old, and it had an aura about it. He knew, as soon as he walked in, that its soul began to cling to him. And he knew that the person who had invited him in was similarly haunted. ‘I don’t get visitors,’ he had said, ‘not of the normal kind.’
Jake’s friend had seen something that night. He was vague about what he had seen, but Jake knew it had stirred up something inside him. And over the following weeks and months, he saw his friend deteriorate rapidly into a form of madness. ‘They followed me home,’ he said to Jake one day, and that was as much as he would disclose. And then, as inexplicably as they had met, he disappeared. And being an adventurous sort of person – in other words, a fool – Jake decided to walk the friend’s road, which took him to the door of the house.

Maybe he should have turned away from the crossroads at that moment. I suppose we can do that – you know, say this is as far as I go; turn back. But the beauty of our species is that we have an enquiring mind, and once the mind has been activated, we rarely have the courage to say no. We are caught in the trap of life, and we must go on.
Jake went on.
He got no answer as he knocked on the door, and as he looked at the windows he began to doubt the story his friend had told him in the first place. And it was a doubt that had been confirmed when he tried the door and it was unlocked. Pushing it, it creaked, and bit by bit, a dark, damp and dusty environment greeted him. This house hasn’t been occupied for years, he realized, so how could his friend have possibly been invited in?
But occupancy is a word we are not always quite so sure about. Even an empty house is rarely empty. Something is in there – creepy crawlies and an army of rodents and …
… yes. And what?
Jake came out of the house with his deep, soulless eyes.

Do I tell you what he told me on subsequent meetings we had – what he saw? I suppose I could, but it would not be the true reality of his situation. No, the reality was much worse than that.
‘They followed me out of that house.’
‘Who are “they”?’ I asked, but I got only a simple reply.
‘It’s like a virus,’ he said. Then, on our final meeting: ‘I’m going back.’

Jake preyed on my mind for weeks after that. Where was he? What had he done? What did he mean? And as sure as night follows day, I was drawn to that house.
I approached it with a sense of foreboding. I had seen houses like this before, but only in horror films. Huge trees formed a malevolent arch over the drive, and as I spied the house itself, I could sense an aura shrouding it – and an aura that could so easily gain free access to my mind. It was, I knew, my last opportunity to turn away from the crossroads, but equally, I knew, I could never do that. And I passed through the door …
A chill hit me as soon as I walked inside. Scurrying noises came to me from the corner of every room, and the windows were so dust encrusted that only flitting shadows were allowed in. Spider’s webs covered everything, and dangled from the high ceilings to touch my skin and jar my soul.
I found the first skeleton in the first room I explored. Its bones were white and it was evident it had been here for decades, if not centuries. And as I moved from room to room, I found more skeletons, but with each find, it was obvious that they were becoming more recent. Eventually, I found one where the flesh had not yet completely disappeared, and in the room after that, I found Jake, his eyes like sockets, and a putrid stench coming from his decaying flesh.
It was then that I felt the presence behind me. It seemed to touch me, beckoning me to turn round; which was, of course, a thing I just did not want to do. But eventually I was drawn to the unknown and I turned.
Jake was stood before me.

So few hours have gone by since I saw Jake’s ghost, but it seems like an eternity. His soulless eyes were still there, and it was clear that he was witnessing the same hell in death that he had in the final stages of his life. Whatever happened to him, I didn’t know at first, but soon it began to dawn on me that Jake had starved to death. But why? Why had he not left the house?
I asked myself the question many times, but knew the answer all along. If the answer was vague when I saw Jake’s ghost, it became a little clearer when it was joined by his friends. And his friend’s by his friends, and on and on came the ghosts, wearing the clothes and fashions of the centuries since the house was built. And in every one of them the knowing that if they had left …
But they couldn’t.
Jake’s friend had said it all: ‘They followed me home.’ And Jake himself, to me: ‘It’s like a virus.’
And now I sit.
I’m hungry. But I know the crossroads was a dead end. I close my eyes as they swirl, laughing, about me, for I realize my quarantine is permanent.

(c) Anthony North, December 2007

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ROBIN HOOD - SERIES TWO Sunday, Dec 30 2007

Right, it’s all over. How can Robin Hood continue now? Good grief, Maid Marion is dead, sliced through by the wicked, but troubled, Gisborne! But I never thought you could have Robin Hood without Friar Tuck.
I still think he should be there, but political correctness rules at the Beeb. Why, even in Robin and Marion’s wedding scene she didn’t say ‘obey’. I thought that only went out in the last couple of decades. Revisionist history at its worst.

That aside, what a brilliant second series it has been.

Okay, the plots are simple – someone gets caught, they rescue the person and thwart the evil Sheriff of Nottingham, but the treatment inbetween was marvelous.
Keith Allen was brilliant as the Sheriff. His constant search for a tooth to replace a missing one saw him looting many a skull, and the scene where he’s lost in the forest, looks up and screams as the camera pans up from the canopy was an excellent take on the opening of I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here.’

Jonas Armstrong as Robin was equally good.

I loved the way he was portrayed as some sort of modern delinquent, slouching about, unshaven, and even at times wearing a hoodie.
This slant to the contemporary is, I suppose, what the series was all about. Throughout was the backdrop of the Crusades, and in the final episode Robin even tells off King Richard for ignoring England whilst fighting a pointless war in the Middle East.
Mindst you, one wonders whether Robin Hood would even have returned if this contemporary theme could not have been aired. But regardless, it was here, and very well done, Beeb. Just a shame you can’t maintain this standard always.

© Anthony North, December 2007

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THE BILL - ASSAULT ON SUN HILL Saturday, Dec 29 2007

The Assault on Sun Hill episode of The Bill (ITV1, 28 Dec) was quite excellent, and contained, within it, some surprising humour not usually noted in The Bill.
The story concerned three inexperienced petty villains taking the police station by storm. Armed, they were there to demand the release of two girlfriends, who were already about to be released anyway. Taking hostages, opening up the cell doors brought into the story a hardened armed robber, who predictably took over the situation to guarantee his escape.
However, also in the cells was one DC Terry Perkins, the scruffy, balding cop of many years, who was sleeping off too much drink. And in marvelous, if understated, fashion, he became the hero of the piece. And this is where it was marvelous.
I just loved the plot of a scruffy, balding cop finding himself in a building taken over by gunmen, and single-handedly winning the day. The only thing wrong was the title. Far better, I think, would be ‘Die Hard 4 and a Half’.

© Anthony North, December 2007

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CHRISTMAS IN SOAPLAND Saturday, Dec 29 2007

While I do enjoy the UK’s SOAPs I do object to them at Christmas. They take away the requirement to produce the ‘specials’ which were so good in times past. But since we have seasonal SOAPs, what were they like?
Well, ‘seasonal’ was perhaps not the word to use. Doom and gloom I’m afraid, with poor Eastender Bradley finding out that tart, Stacy, had been having it away with his dad, Max; and in Coronation Street, little Rosie Webster finally being found out – school pupils just should not have sex with their teacher, especially when they’re that ugly.
At least Corrie did offer some Yuletide humour and sentimentality, which was appreciated, but in terms of ‘seasonal’ I’m afraid only Emmerdale lived up to the time.
Not in the storyline, but they did have Three Kings (in Jimmy, Matthew and Carl), a shepherd of two (Jack Sugden and Andy) and a Virgin conception – well a surrogate, at least.

© Anthony North, December 2007

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A MINISTERIAL AFFAIR Friday, Dec 28 2007

Detective Sergeant Jordan entered the room with an air of expectancy. It seemed as if he’d been a copper all his life, but although he enjoyed it, he knew that, at thirty five, he should be an Inspector by now. He knew, of course, what the problem was - he just couldn’t keep his mouth shut or tow the line. And with a new user-friendly police service - NOT force - he knew he was seen as a dinosaur.
He turned his balding head to take in the room - called over the Alsatian which sat, peacefully, by a large leather settee. ‘Hello, chum,’ he said, stroking it affectionately. ‘I wonder if you know your master’s dead?’
Jordan certainly knew he was. And it was his job to find out why. And he well knew that if he got this right, he’d be one step closer to that mythical Inspector.
Sir Keith Masters had been found, dead, on the road below his balcony that morning. Jordan’s initial reaction on hearing the news had been that it was suicide, even though there was no evidence of psychological problems before hand. But even this conclusion would be an embarrassment, for Sir Keith was - had - been a junior Minister at the Ministry of Defence.
Murder had obviously to be considered, and it was to check out this possibility that he stood in Sir Keith’s study, the balcony visible through the open french windows.
He had been in the room, alone, for ten minutes, having found no sign of struggle or break-in, when the door opened, the Alsatian ran out, and in walked DS Tina Thompson.
Jordan scowled. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he said.
Tina Thompson pushed back her long, auburn hair and her piercing brown eyes fixed on him. They had only worked together once before, and she’d wished it would never happen again. But the DCI had wanted her on the case, for he just didn’t trust Jordan’s tact. Telling him straight, Jordan paced the room. ‘Typical,’ he said, ‘bloody typical.’
‘Well I don’t like it any better than you do.’
A silence followed, finally interrupted by Tina, saying: ‘So have you found anything?’
‘It’s as clean as a whistle.’
Opening the french windows, Tina Thompson walked out onto the balcony, looked down, winced, and looked over the road. Momentarily distracted from the case in hand, she said: ‘Oh, isn’t that lovely.’
Jordan followed her gaze, took in the Siamese cat sitting on the balcony opposite, and swore. ‘We do have a case to solve, you know.’

Tina Thompson considered herself part of the new, caring police service. Just ten years in the job following her degree, she was on the fast track, not long, she knew, from her inspector. She hated coppers like Jordan and wished they would just disappear. The Met quite simply had no room for them any more. Rather, the future had to be caring, or all that would happen is the circle of crime would go on spinning round and round.
‘Not if we lock the sods up,’ said Jordan as they left Sir Keith’s flat and got into his car.
Their destination was Sir Keith’s London constituency office. Walking into the office, Matthew Perkins was already waiting for them. Sir Keith’s constituency agent, both Jordan and Tina immediately noticed his shiftiness and realised he had something to hide.
The interview was standard: ‘Did Sir Keith have any problems? ‘Can you think of anyone who would want to kill him?’ ‘And where were you between midnight and six o’clock this morning?’
The answers were nothing more than they’d expected. ‘But he’s hiding something,’ said Jordan.
Tina agreed, adding: ‘Of course. he’s having an affair with Sir Keith’s housekeeper.’
Jordan whistled. ‘And how do you know that?’ he asked.
‘Because as we entered the office, he slipped something quickly into his desk drawer. And when you were dist¬racting him, I took a look.’
‘And what did you find?’
‘A snapshot of him arm in arm with the woman who let me into the flat this morning.’

Jordan hated smart coppers, especially if they were female. It was that he was anti-feminist. Just old-fashioned.
‘So that puts him in the frame,’ he said as they got back into his car, heading back to Sir Keith’s flat.
Tina sighed. ‘We can’t say that. Not yet. But it’s certainly suspicious that he didn’t want us to know.’
‘Well I go on hunches, love. And I’m telling you, it’s him.’
‘Don’t call me love.’
‘And they should hang him. Hang ‘em all. That’s what I say.’
‘Yea, yea, yea,’ said Tina, sitting back in her seat, wishing the day would end.

Jennifer Armstrong was maybe forty five, her good looks just beginning to disappear under a profusion of wrinkles. Tina immediately noticed two things about her as she sat in front
of them. First, she just didn’t seem the housekeeper sort. And second, she had been crying a lot, and even now, was forcing herself to hold back the tears. It was midway through the interview that Jordan dropped the bombshell:
‘And what did Sir Keith think about your affair with Matthew Perkins?’
Ms Armstrong was clearly rattled by this, and Tina just couldn’t get it out of her head that she thought it had nothing to do with the case. And it was then that her own intuition struck - a much more fundamental thing, she knew, that Jordan’s animal-like hunches. Excusing herself from the interview, she wandered about the flat, looking for the tell-tale signs she was sure she would find.
‘Well I don’t think that added anything to the investigation,’ said Jordan when they left.
‘I disagree,’ said Tina, feeling rather smug, and determined to show Jordan up for the dinosaur he was.
‘Oh,’ said Jordan, ‘and why’s that?’
‘She was far too upset, so I looked round the flat. There was no sign of Sir Keith having any woman friends visiting him. He’s not gay, so that’s unusual for a man in his position. But I did notice that Jennifer Armstrong’s room had not been slept in for God knows how long.’
‘So what are you getting at?’
Is he dumb, or what, thought Tina. ‘That they slept together, of course.’
Jordan whistled. He had a nasty habit of doing that, thought Tina. ‘So we’ve got a motive,’ he said.
‘It would seem so.’
‘But which one did it?’
‘That’s what we have to find out.’ Which was rather like stating the obvious.

The rest of the day was spent at the station, making calls and confirming that Sir Keith AND Matthew Perkins were lovers of Ms Armstrong. The following day they would have to find out who pushed him off the balcony. Tina Thompson spent most of the night mulling on the matter.
The next morning she entered Sir Keith’s flat. Jordan was sat on the settee, stroking the Alsatian as it sat, patiently, next to him. ‘If only you could talk,’ he said, prompting Tina Thompson to question his hands-on technique.
Jennifer Armstrong entered the study, then. ‘What is it this time?’ she said, irritated.
Tina was about to put the question delicately, when Jordan interrupted and said: ‘So you’ve been playing around. All I want to know is who pushed him? You or Perkins?’
Jennifer Armstrong broke down at that point. Tina Thompson had had enough and needed some fresh air. She opened the french windows and walked out onto the balcony. Embarrassed,by Ms Armstrong’s tears, Jordan joined her, and as Tina flashed him
a look that could kill, said: ‘I know, I know, I’m not good at tact.’
‘Well we’ll never find out which of them did it, now, will we?’ said Tina, walking back into the study.
Jordan looked over the road as he leaned on the balcony. As the Siamese cat appeared once more, he said, ‘your cat’s back. ‘
Tina Thompson suddenly stopped in her tracks. ‘What did you say?’ she asked. Whilst at the same moment the Alsatian spotted the cat, growled, and bounded towards the balcony. With a warning of ‘watch out!’ from Tina, Jordan jumped out of the way just before the dog would have sent him spiraling to his death.

‘Jordan?’ said Tina as they were about to leave. As he looked round, she held up the dog lead, as if a noose, and tugged. Then, following a trail of expletives, she smiled and followed him out.

© Anthony North, March 2002

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BYE, BYE PARKY Thursday, Dec 20 2007

On Sunday night I watched the very last interviews by my fellow Yorkshireman, Michael Parkinson. Since the early 1970s the Parkinson show has been the greatest UK chat show.
The respect he has earned was obvious in a final list of guests, including Sir Michael Caine, Sir David Attenborough and Dame Judi Dench. The latter seemed over-wrought with emotion over the end of this mammoth career.
You simply could not be a major celebrity, in the UK or US, without being interviewed by Parky. And always the interview would be entertaining, but probing, allowing the celebrity to talk, often opening up in a way no other show could achieve.
In the rather pathetic celebrity world of today, and interviewers who use guests as props for their own ‘thing’ they mistakenly call wit, this brilliant jewel of a show will be sadly missed. I wish you well, Michael, and thank you.

© Anthony North, December 2007

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THE RAPE OF AFRICA Thursday, Dec 20 2007

When Africa cried the jungle seemed to weep in sympathy. I could hear it now as I stood, ears pricked back to the noise. All about me untold sounds echoed - the birds, the insects, all joining in the omnipotent dirge.
I wiped sweat from my brow, trying to figure out what strange sensitivity had made me divert this way. As an aid worker of many years in this pained continent, I had learnt to trust my instinct. It had got me out of trouble on more than one occasion. And as the black workers were stirred up to yet more trouble by this barbarous government, I knew my instincts would be working overtime.
It told me to look behind the tree. Slowly, cautiously, I approached, unsure of what I would find. But to find her like that brought me so much sorrow …

‘So what’s your name?’ I asked an hour later.
In front of me she sat. She was maybe nineteen, blonde hair, pretty if not for the bruising; the ragged, ripped clothes. ‘Petra,’ she said with a typical Afrikaner accent. ‘And yours?’
Even in her state that air of authority was with her. She was obviously of the whites who had ruled for so long, until black rule was forced on them. ‘Saul Jones,’ I said.
‘Well thankyou, Saul Jones. I owe you my life.’
Underneath, I could see she was a wreck. I asked: ‘What happened?’
She sniffed back a tear; thought a moment, sadly. Then told of the attack on the farm, of the gang determined to clear them out, of her mother and father’s stand, of their …
What can you call it? Were they simply murdered, or would butchery be a better term to use?

When night comes to Africa it is impenetrable. And of that I was glad. It soon became clear that the gang was not content with simply her parent’s murder. Their blood was up; or maybe they just didn’t want any witnesses, regardless of how often the government turned a blind eye.
‘There must be twenty of them,’ Petra had told me, ‘armed to the teeth.’
We hid for the third time since I found her. It wasn’t too difficult. I had much experience of Africa and she had been brought up in the area. She could crouch there, not moving, not breathing, even her smell seeming to change to smell like the terrain around her.
When they had passed, we relaxed, sat back. I said: ‘You won’t be able to stay after this.’
‘I know,’ she replied, a sadness in her voice. ‘But I’ll miss it. I have family in England who’ll take me in. But it won’t be the same.’
She took the old, tattered sack off her back which she had clung to for dear life since I found her. Opening it, she took out food and we both ate hungrily. Satiated, she took out an old music box. She stared at it, her eyes seeming to glaze.
‘A strange thing to take with you,’ I said, ‘when you’re running for your life.’
She smiled. ‘It was bought for me on the day I was born; it so much is part of my life. Even as I ran from the farm, I knew it would go with me.’

We were about thirty miles from help, and the following day allowed only slow progress. During our rest periods, Petra spoke of her life before the troubles. Of the way both blacks and their white bosses got on so well. Of how much her father had black interests at heart, both in economic terms and in their welfare. To her, it was only right and proper, and often she would play with the black children. The country could have done so well, if only politics and the desire of certain men to control had been kept at bay.
I wasn’t sure I fully agreed with her argument. After all, I had been in this country a long time, doing aid work. If they had got it so right, why was I needed?
‘But doesn’t the fact you’re here confirm that the white man wanted to do best for this country?’

That second night, I’m afraid I ended up doing things an aid worker and peace loving man shouldn’t. But when their patrols stumbled on us, there was nothing else I could do.
There were two of them, undisciplined and disorganised as any black African gang, be it marauding thugs or a supposedly professional army. And luckily they were as startled to find us as we were to be found.
A moment’s confusion followed. But I knew the moment they fired a gun it would be over. If we were not killed there and then, the noise would bring the rest. So when I took out my knife - for cutting food parcels open; for splaying rope when building shelters for the refugees - I knew blood would now run down its blade. And after the carnage - after I had thrust into those living things, reducing them to corpses - I spent the remainder of the night staring into the darkness. Into the darkness of the continent, and the darkness that had prized itself into the centre of my being.

Morning brought a respite in the efforts Petra made to comfort me. ‘You did right,’ she said. ‘There was no other way.’ But even though I knew she was right, it provided only a momentary respite.
Finally, she sat by me, smiled, her bruises seeming to disappear as that lovely face filled my vision. And soon her arm went around me, pulled me to her breast, comforted.
I don’t think I can recall when I last felt so right; although nearly ten years older than Petra, a sexual excitement took hold. Maybe it was what we had been through over the last couple of days, binding us together, our experiences taking us to the limits of endurance, releasing new, unknown hormones. Or at least, that is what I thought. But as I raised my head and kissed her, her whole demeanour changed.
I was confused as she pulled away, as she began to shake, as tears rolled, uncontrollably, down her cheek.
‘What is it?’ I said. ‘What have I done?’
For a long time she was not forthcoming. But in the end she told me. She told me of how she was made to watch her parents die. And then the leader had taken the music box she was clinging to, opened it, allowing her beloved tune to play as he threw her to the floor and raped her before handing her to the rest.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, ‘I should have thought. Oh, Petra, you poor thing.’
Her eyes glazed over. ‘It wasn’t so bad,’ she said, ‘not really. I was somewhere else.’ She took out the music box; held it to her breast. ‘I was with my song.’

The next few hours were quiet as we continued our escape. The forest seemed to work with us for a change, instead of against us. And although I hated it, I felt a new confidence as I carried one of the AK-47s taken from the gang members I had killed. But I should have known it was to be a false optimism. I should have known the rest would realise two of their number had not come back. And it wouldn’t be hard for them to work out what had happened, and where we had been. Which meant they would also know where we were heading.
The ambush, when it came, was fierce. Both Petra and I dived for cover as the rounds whizzed about us. I was no gunman, but I returned fire as best I could, knowing I had to kill some more, and hating it.
Minutes passed, though it seemed like hours. But eventually, calm descended, and a broken voice shouted: ‘Send out the girl. That’s all we want, and you can go.’
As if I would believe that. I turned to Petra in the hope of giving her comfort, but I was amazed to see she had stood up.
It was surreal to watch as she took out the music box, opened it up, allowing her song to play, and walk out into the open.
Slowly she walked, a look of destiny in her eyes, and the gang members seemed to break cover, walk towards her, to surround her.
White farmers often kept explosives on the farms, I knew. It was useful stuff to blow up a tree, dam a stream beginning to flood after the rains. And as Petra and the gang evaporated in a ball of flame, it seemed like a eulogy to the hate which Africa never seems to throw off. And for the rest of my life I knew Petra’s song would also be mine.

(c) Anthony North, December 2007

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BALI IS OVER Monday, Dec 17 2007

So the global warming conference at Bali is over. Agreement has finally been made, following the United States’ agreement to allow green technology for developing countries. But what have they actually agreed?
Well, in typical global political style, they’ve agreed to keep talking towards a new treaty in a couple of years’ time. So that’s alright, then. They haven’t actually done anything.
I do hope the delegates are going to off-set their carbon emissions in terms of all the hot air they spouted as well as the footprint involved in getting there. But somehow I doubt it.
I am skeptical of such conferences. I am skeptical of words from people such as Al Gore. Even if agreement is finally made, I doubt if many countries will ratify it, or make real concessions to combating climate change.
I think this because politicians are the wrong people to do it. It is technology that needs to change, and that happens through enterprise. And there will be no real moves towards halting the problem until a new business ethic arises to actually do it.
And that’s another thing I do not really see at this moment.

© Anthony North, December 2007

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